


Death Isn't Just a Heartbeat

by 3988Akasha



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-10
Updated: 2013-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-28 20:56:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/678810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3988Akasha/pseuds/3988Akasha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miles follows his daily patterns, even when he no longer knows why he bothers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Death Isn't Just a Heartbeat

**Author's Note:**

> This is Miles POV to accompany [Where Demons Hide](http://archiveofourown.org/works/667726) and [And Evil Men Fear to Go](http://archiveofourown.org/works/673419)
> 
> It will also have a companion piece.

He smells like piss and shit, but that isn’t the worst of it. He is conscious, aware again and that is worse, that is always worse. He feels the dirt beneath his body, the rock jabbing him in the kidney, the headache from imbibing too much questionable liquor. He feels it all, but it isn’t enough to mask the real pain, not for long. He sees _him_ in his dreams, blue eyes looking at him from their bed, dark with lust, warm with love. He sees those same eyes upon waking, mirages in the distance, hallucinations sent by the Furies to torment him for his betrayal. He deserves it. He stumbles to his feet, fortifying himself against another day of monotonous torture.

He trudges for about an hour in the direction of Philadelphia. He deludes himself into believing he can simply walk home, offer an apology and slide back into the status quo. He lives in those moments, the false hope pumping the otherwise stagnant blood through his veins. He savors the warmth of _his_ simile as they pour coffee and tend the fire. He takes refuge in the strength of _his_ arms as they embrace and speak words of forgiveness, words of love, words of their unbreakable bond. He always feels tired when he turns around and begins retracing his steps back away from _him_.

He defends himself one evening when a determined young man decides he wants to relieve him of his newly acquired liquor of questionable origins. He pours a toast to the kid’s corpse and wonders why he bothered to fight back at all. He finds a shovel somewhere and doesn’t remember how the second dead body joined the first, but knows digging two graves is just as easy. He ponders things as he drinks and digs two holes; the dirt clumping under his fingernails bothers him because he hears _him_ complain about it. He sits on the edge of the first grave, feet dangling over the edge and he kicks them restlessly. He remembers the first time he had been forced to dig a grave and his smile is bitter. He knows _he_ is a sentimental fool, knows that’s why he’d taken off his jacket and set to digging a grave. He pictures it in his head, the uneven sides, the depth that was never deep enough to suit _him_. He laughs as the darkness calls to him, the Devil calling him by name. He rolls the first body into the grave, feeling as though he has appeased the Devil. He tells the Devil he’ll be waiting a while yet to collect his charred and broken soul. He is startled by the eyes of the second body, they’re still open and stare up at him blankly – they’re blue. He drops to his knees next to the body and shakes with unshed tears, his apology catches in his throat. He climbs to his feet and kicks the second body until it falls into the grave with a satisfying thump. He thinks he should have closed his eyes. He sits on top of the first grave, the freshly churned dirt soft beneath his fingers. He drinks. He thinks. He overanalyzes everything until the individual parts are too fractured to resemble the whole from which they came.

He repeats the same journey each day.

He only allows himself an hour to travel towards home.

He fights to stay alive because his body demands it.

He cherishes his one hour a day.

He thanks the Furies for haunting him with blue eyes.

He wonders if today will be the day.

He is unsure which will leave him first, his will or his resolve.

He walks towards home for an hour each day. 

**Author's Note:**

> Good? Bad? 
> 
> I totally blame [ElDiablo_SF](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ElDiablito_SF) for this because she gave me feels last night.
> 
> Read the companion piece [And I've Died a Thousand Times Before](http://archiveofourown.org/works/688378)


End file.
